


New Year's

by Siera_Writes



Series: when the last of that river has passed [2]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Cooking, Domesticity, Fluff, Intimacy, Introspection, M/M, Multi, Smoking, gargoyle!Ross, kelpie!smith, selkie!Trott, umy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5700451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could hear a faint overlap of snoring from behind him, and his mind idly parsed the individual timbres of the three men's breaths, the knowledge of the differing qualities almost instinctual now. He was warm, comfortable, safe. The quilt was a reassuring weight, the top-left corner curled around and tucked beneath his chin. He slowly extended a leg, recoiling when the condo's cooler air met his skin. Sips huffed quietly in distaste, before pressing his lips tightly together, and easing from their cocoon, the chill eliciting the typical response; his hairs pulled to stand on end, and he shivered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Year's

**Author's Note:**

> I started this at the beginning of December, bitter at myself for having not entered the umy secret santa. And then all of a sudden I was and this went on the back-burner when I was about 1K in.
> 
> And then, I kinda watched the latest Star Wars. Loved it a lot. Drifted a bit, is what I'm saying. I haven't watched Hat Films in about three weeks which - for me - is saying a lot. I don't watch all of their stuff, but I keep fairly up to date. Usually. Today I have no idea of what's going on.
> 
> However, the two different umy aus that I write for, and the racer au, are things very much beloved to me so even if I do stop watching entirely, I think I'll most likely still be writing for them.
> 
> Anyway. I hope this fic is alright, considering. I will just say, this fic is actually chronologically after the fic prior to this. However, the two locations seem... very much seperate. It is the same place, but it's not. It's still their home but the building I wrote for this is so disparate to the other one that it's kind of funny. I'll explain it away by saying that the city in this au feels very eldritch to me, a tad Lovecraftian. I think that covers it.
> 
> Anyway, ramble over. Enjoy!

Sips woke at dawn. The pale beginnings of sunrise lit the room, giving every surface an ethereal cast. The space was illuminated through a set of double doors which lead to their small balcony. Gauze curtains made the low light muted, pastel, and the light seemed to enter parallel, drawing the shadows in the room out long. Of the four of them, Sips was closest to the windowed doors where he lay, and he opened his eyes to a softened cityscape; hulking dark oblongs were the suggestions of buildings, flat and made simple by the gossamer material hanging in front of the window. It made the light bearable, and Sips barely had to squint before his eyes adjusted. The sky was perceivable as a gradient behind the uneven blocks of charcoal shade in light blue at the top, downwards through fiery pinks and orange, and finally to a restrained gold, almost hidden by the angle and the tower blocks.

He could hear a faint overlap of snoring from behind him, and his mind idly parsed the individual timbres of the three men's breaths, the knowledge of the differing qualities almost instinctual now. He was warm, comfortable, safe. The quilt was a reassuring weight, the top-left corner curled around and tucked beneath his chin. He slowly extended a leg, recoiling when the condo's cooler air met his skin. Sips huffed quietly in distaste, before pressing his lips tightly together, and easing from their cocoon, the chill eliciting the typical response; his hairs pulled to stand on end, and he shivered. 

Sips turned to gently pull the duvet until it lay flat on the mattress, making sure Ross, who had been closest to him, wouldn't be woken by a chill breeze down his back. He smiled small, and fond, still humbled at the fact he was privy to this; perhaps some of the most dangerous creatures in the city, and he got to see them curled together like puppies.

Sips' stomach dropped. A lonely melancholy hummed in the centre of his chest, rang hollowly at the back of his mind. Family. It seemed to be the only word which fitted the scenario, but he felt a twist of guilt, like admitting it was a betrayal. It made him think of early mornings and clear skies. Snow a blinding white carpet on the ground, while he smelt smoke, tasted the burn of winter air on his tongue. He had to dredge up his old mantra - that life never stays the same - while pushing down memories with his teeth gritted into an unpleasant grimace. He didn't want to think of the past. And he was happy now.

Even so, there were still some old traditions he needed to observe, felt compelled to. In a way, this was his penance. 

He stepped as quietly around the room as he could, hunting for clothes, and wrapped up warm. He'd still get cold, but that was inevitable, and undeniably part of why he still did this. He let the three fae slumber on, locked in a tangle of limbs. It was always difficult when he saw them like that. Surprising. Just three heads pressed close, the rest of their bodies shielded by the the duvet. Watery dawn light struck Ross' horns, the glass gleaming royal and deep from between his dark locks. They looked innocent like that. The monsters under their skin barely showed.

Sips turned his back and padded towards the door leading to the balcony outside. The key turned easily with a dull clunk, and he slipped behind the thin curtain, then through as narrow a crack in the door as he could manage, closing it securely behind him.

The space outside was small; three foot deep, and perhaps another half that as wide. The metal railing - the art deco influence obvious - had a large square for each individual railing segment, which encapsulated a series of concentric circles, the each side to the square bordered by a long rectangle. At both of the corners of the balcony, square iron posts extended upwards to the balcony above, the floor of which offered a small degree of shelter from the elements. The railing was ostentatious, at odds with the rest of the apartment's decor. Trott had made his distaste immediately obvious, but Sips liked it. It shouldn't work, should clash with the sleek modernism of the interior, but it did work, just like them. The railing marked the border between this small island of calm, and the multi-storey drop to the usually-chaotic streets below. The space could have been cold, barren, but there were obvious signs that Ross favoured this area. Sips has seen him perch here enough on long summer evenings with heavy lids and a gentle smile to watch as people bustled through the roads far below, to know this. 

The gargoyle's influence was made apparent in a few additions. The first was a small trellis, made of pale oak strips, nailed together in a criss-crossed pattern. It was fastened to the railing on the far-left, and ivy spilt from it in curling tendrils, the palmate leaves overlapping like scales. A small, red clay box was attached to the railing, to the left of the far section of railing. A line of stout succulents emerged from the dry soil, the thick leaves' colours gaudy but washed-out, and arrayed in intricate spirals. Ross had chosen hardy plants, ones which could stand the weather, survive the cold, and equally the heat of the summer. Sips hadn't understood at first. Why choose something as dull as Ross had? He realised now. You always need something to bring you a little happiness. Even though Ross could have had brilliant, but seasonal, flowers, their petals lush and vibrant, he had chosen something which would last. Sips was glad of that, stood in the cold.

The area could have seemed unbalanced, had there not been the chair left to fill the space on his right. It was stout, wooden, at odds with the clean lines of the metal around him. The legs were either intentionally curved, or bowing from age. He couldn't remember. They'd brought it with them when they moved from the last dump they stayed in, and when they'd first found it, they had salvaged it from a skip. To an extent, it served as a reminder of where they had risen from. Sips hadn't sat in it since their last move. In a strange way, it was as though he didn't trust it not to fall apart under his weight, even after it serving them well for so many years.

Instead, he strode to lean against the metal railing of their condo balcony. The cold bit at his forearm where it was braced over the faintly frosted surface, and at his elbow where his right arm was propped, harsh even through several layers of clothing. He fished a rattling packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, flicked open the top, and drew out a single cigarette, before pressing it between his lips. He replaced the packet, feeling for his lighter while the gelid air slowly drew in around him. He flipped open its scuffed silver lid with a metallic clink, tracing the lines where his keys had scratched the anodised surface with his thumbnail, his gaze absent. The dawn light dyed it a brassy gold. All he could see of the sky was a sliver between two skyscrapers which stood as proud sentries to either side of the intersection which was to the front and right of their apartment block, and then the far paler vaulted heights above, which lead down the linear road system to the left and right of him, the rest blocked by other massive buildings.

With a rough sound, Sips flicked the flint of the lighter, shielding the dancing flame from the wind's lightly toying grasp with his free hand. He ducked his head closer, jerked his chin up when the cigarette's end was lit, and quickly closed the lid and returned the lighter to his pocket. He removed the cigarette, pinching it between his first two fingers and thumb, and breathed out a hazy cloud. It always looked more impressive in the cold. The air cleared the smoke away in graduated, jagged strokes, disturbing the haze's form. 

Sips breathed in heavily, the frosty air sharp on his nose, and down the back of his throat. His eyes were stinging from it, and the ice beneath his forearm and elbow had melted and seeped into the material of the hoodie. He let the cigarette hang loosely from between his fingers, a lazy trail of smoke curling upwards from its end, its passage just barely disturbed in the relatively still air. He deserved the cold, just to remember his past life, even momentarily. He shifted where he stood, shivering, and the cigarette pack rattled in his jacket pocket with the movement, while his shoes scuffed lightly on the flagged ground.

He stood there, time extending into a vague infinity. The cold seeped closer and began setting into Sips' bones, almost matching the chill of his mood for whenever he decided to do this. New Year's Day was a given, however. He watched lights flicker on in the buildings across from him as the populace began to rouse from its drink-hazed slumber in creeping steps. The sun was strengthening, though its heat was still meagre, so he felt no growing warmth, even as it ascended higher in its brief skip across the heavens. Sure, the days might have started growing longer, but it was still the depths of winter that they were in. His fae were lethargic from a hastily arranged Midwinter party, days earlier, in an almost shocking contrast to the nervous energy pouring off them in the few hectic hours leading up to it. 

They'd revelled that night, left him in their apartment while they mingled with the naïve, and the ones arrogant enough to believe they'd be chosen. Some were even more arrogant: the ones who believed they'd survive an encounter. They threw themselves at the fae in the city, eager and high on anticipation. Sips never asked about them. The latter kind were ignored.

After, they had returned home to revere him. Kisses with Smith held the copper tang of blood - and Sips isn't sure if it was truly there or if he imagined it. Isn't sure which is worse. Smith was wild, lungs hitching like an unbroken stallion, eyes flashing as his teeth glinted sharp and bright against his kiss-brightened lips. But Smith's enthusiasm was common-place. Sure, it was heightened, but it was nothing unusual. Sips had always found Trott's more unrestrained hedonism leading up to Midwinter the more unsettling, because it was so disparate from his far more laid-back attitude the rest of the time. Perhaps it was a water fae thing, their moods capricious like oceans and their tides. Ross seemed just as unnerved as Sips, sometimes, though even he was affected; the gargoyle's tail had snapped side to side with restlessness, eyes sharp like a cat's and fingers more resemblant of talons.

Sips had watched and witnessed and felt them, kissed them back with all he had, the whole time being aware someone, somewhere, had died earlier in the evening, by their hands. Did he feel guilty? Sips was no longer sure.

He still felt strange about this whole thing, about his partners being fae, and their... foibles, but only when he stopped long enough to consider all the implications. It was why he still had his job, still worked, still bowled. He needed to. He couldn't allow himself to become idle and let what they did play on his mind all the time. He was their king, and they treated him like one; for god knows what reason, they kept him. They chose him, and so he couldn't let them know that sometimes, it was a little too much for him.

His thoughts trailed to a stop, the heavy tide of them stilling, and he came back to full awareness. The cold he had inadvertently become ignorant of swamped him, wracking him with shudders. He should have gone back inside by now, stripped himself with hasty movements and crawled back into bed to wake Ross with playful touches of his icy cold hands, but he needed this. Needed just to think, to dwell on things. Sometimes he forced himself to live in the present too much. He needed to think things over when it all got a bit too much. It was always like that for him at the gateway to another year.

He tipped his head to observe the quiet streets below, marvelling at how desolate the pavements seemed. A single person far below him wore a bright hat, and the colourful dot of it seemed to bob side-to-side as they hastened to wherever their destination was. The exceptionally sparse traffic caused a low, timorous hum, dulled by the distance and the light wind working to carry it from him. At this point, the thin, low clouds which had been neon bright as dawn broke, had thinned and dulled, becoming dark and unremarkable as the sun lit them from above. The slit of sky between the apartment blocks was a richer blue now, the brilliance of the sun's light diminished even as the day had grown lighter.

He raised the cigarette back to his lips, grimacing at how far it had burnt down to the butt while he was unawares. He winced at the bitter chemical taste on his tongue. It was a bad habit, he knew. He had always been certain he'd die before he suffered any serious repercussions from it. After settling in with the three other men, he was even more assured of this. It wasn't even that he thought they might kill him - though he hadn't ruled that out, whether it be due to necessity or the apathy he was sure they'd grow to feel towards him at some point - just that he'd gone and got a target painted over his heart for the decision. The idea worried him, but not enough to convince him to make a change. He was too content, strangely, living like this.

He heard the soft grate of the handle behind him being depressed and the door opened, quietly as possible, before being closed again. Sips knew it was Trott. Smith was never that subtle, and as muted as Ross tried to make his movements, the scuffing sound of his strange, stony skin against the tiles of the floor was unique enough for him to know it wasn't Ross. Sips stayed still where he stood, his only motions his shivers and the raising and lowering of the glowing stump he clutched in his hand.

He could feel Trott watching him from behind. He was sure the brunet thought Sips was a puzzle - as though Trott himself wasn't. The selkie who had left his friends and family behind, who hated the ocean and had come to the city in search of something bigger than himself. He saw an awful lot of himself in Trott - the longing for intimacy, for closeness, and the intensely restrained emotion and memories. He doubted they'd ever discuss their pasts wholly, other than throwaway comments, always holding something back. The memories were buried too deep, like daggers, and bringing them to the surface would hurt too much, even if it was more beneficial in the long-run. And just as blood would well from the wound, Sips was certain, it would come to reveal some of the worst aspects of themselves. 

They stood there for a while, neither speaking, neither verbally acknowledging the other's presence. The brunet's gaze bore into the back of Sips' neck. He should have felt vulnerable, the dangerous fae only a few feet behind him, and him only offering his back. But he was safe. There was a mutual respect, and something else, something which ran between them and flowed like the sea. Deeper and more organic than their blood pact, than of court member and King. Sips hesitated to label it. He couldn't bear admitting what it was.

"Trott." He trailed off, not quite sure what to say, what he had been planning on saying. He tapped the ash at the end of his cigarette onto the flat of the railing, watching the thin layer of ice heat, and then break away in small, straggling lines of vapour. The air and metal was cool enough for some water to remain, and small motes of ash were dislodged from the pile, landing on the surface and trailing across, like stars through a galaxy.

There's a lazy-deep hum of acknowledgement from behind him, rich in timbre, clogged with sleep, and Sips humourlessly quirked the side of his mouth into an unseen smile. He turned, slouching against the railing, to finally look at the selkie. Trott's head was held level, eyes deep and shadowed deeper. His brows were held level but serious. He was wearing a pair of boxers, slung low on his waist and presumably not his - more probably Ross'. Much of his flesh was covered by the skin, its pelt soft and warm, colour of an oak's bark. Elegant fingers were clutching at corners to hold it close: to keep his warmth trapped. It's a cold day, early. Sips tipped his head back to catch a glimpse of the sky, huffing a short laugh in disbelief at the shorter man's garb. He had to be freezing. 

Trott reflexively jutted his chin higher, and adjusted his posture to appear more like he was perfectly comfortable, and less like he was huddling into the wall behind him. Sips gestured expansively with his cigarette, trailing smoke working to make the manoeuvre seem more mystical, more profound. "You've got to be cold. Don't stand out here with an old man; go back to bed and sleep some more." It's not said unkindly. He brought the cigarette up to his mouth, hunching his shoulders and curving his spine, as though searching for warmth from the tiny thing.

Trott tilted his head, seeming more than comfortable to just watch him passively. His slight shivers said otherwise. The bits of Trott's legs which Sips could see had their hairs raised, the flesh prickled. His toes periodically clenched and uncurled, and he shifted his weight on his bare feet on the tiles often. Trott wasn't stupid. He knew Sips knew he was cold. He was stubborn, though, perhaps more so than Smith. The only difference being that he also listened to reason.

Trott didn't say anything, though. He panned his vision and cast it far from Sips, observing the city and the dawn of the year. Sips almost shook his head at the other man, exasperation bubbling fond in his chest. His attention shifted too, scanning the road below, over his shoulder. The line across his arm where he'd leant on the frozen-over railing burnt cold and damp down his arm. He didn't expect it when Trott speaks, and whipped his head around with unbridled curiosity.

"Ross got up to go cook something for you." Though he said it with seriousness, there was a hint of levity in Trott's eyes, his gaze still skipping past Sips' form, and unfocused. His mind must have conjured the image of Ross in their kitchen, tail gently undulating left to right, left to right, as the gargoyle hummed, enjoying himself with that aura of quiet contentment.

The corner of Sips' mouth quirked, and he nodded once, understanding what Trott was saying. He was done with this, anyway. He took one last, long drag on the cigarette, held that breath for a beat, then exhaled, feeling the finality of it. He stubbed the butt out, then flicked it over the railing while he stepped forward to move indoors, ignoring the fate of the burnt-out cylinder. Trott didn't move from where he was stationed, his eyes following Sips' short journey to the glass-paned door, cheeks dusted pink from the cold. His hair was growing out of its usually ruthlessly enforced cut, the strands dancing in the wind's playful fingers. It wasn't yet long enough to tie up. Sips wondered at Trott's sudden bout of apparent carelessness towards it. There must have been more to it than he was aware.

In lieu of speaking to the selkie, he ducked to brush his mouth against the corner of the brunet's lips, the sharp line of his jaw, before moving past him to re-enter the room. The warmth was blessed, fanning across his face, over his hands, and he couldn't help his sigh of relief. He kept his hoodie on, in order to warm quicker - if there was one thing he'd learnt about the cold, it was the necessity of layers - but toed his shoes off. Smith was still sprawled in the sheets, one arm artfully thrown above his head, the sheets precariously low across his waist. The kelpie peeked out from one eye, watching Sips, ruining any façade that the pose wasn't fully orchestrated to lure Sips to him.

"Nice try, Smiffy." Even Sips could hear the smile in his own voice. He followed the faint whirring thrum of the extractor fan in the kitchen, ignoring the plaintive sounds of the kelpie from the bed. As Sips left the room, he heard quick steps, a thump like heavy fabric dropping, careless laughter accompanied by a surprised shout from Smith. His two water fae. Oh, they made him smile.

One of the stairs creaked, but he wasn't bothered. They were all awake now. He trailed a hand down the bannister, felt all the raised flecks of spattered white paint, chaos on a small scale. Only truly noticeable if you bothered to look closely. 

At the foot of the stairs, Sips' feet met the pale grey tiles of the hallway, and the chill seemed to soak through his socks. Granted, they were a little on the worn side. He didn't attempt to mute his footfalls, though they weren't loud in the first place. There was the occasional brush of his foot across the smooth surface. He could hear the extractor fan better now, hear the higher hum of its intricate mechanical components as electricity played them. The door was ajar, and a slanted line of cool winter light sliced across the tiles, stretched up the wall, fading at its end, merging with the shadowed hallway.

Sips pushed the door open gently, letting the momentum of his passage carry it open in an easy swing. Light hit him, crystalline-bright. Ross was indeed at the hob, his tail sweeping lazily back and forth to some 2/2 metre, with added swing to the rhythm. He was singing to himself, something jazz-like, hopping between pitch and register. It was almost too incongruous to think about - a gargoyle cooking in his kitchen, and one with a penchant for blues, too. Sips loved it.

The creature in question turned to him, smile small and genuine. He was working some sort of magic over the humble ingredients in front of him, making something incredible from them, as always. It smelt great. Ross was a voracious reader, with immense curiosity to boot. He wouldn't have been surprised if Trott told him Ross had read every cookbook he could get his hands on. Sips walked over, perusing what Ross was doing. He'd been out shopping at some point in the past week; his usual fare for his first breakfast of the year was all readily found. Ross blushed at the scrutiny he was paying.

"I just... I can cook something else, if you want?" There's a note of sadness in his voice. The gargoyle had gone stock-still, and was clutching the pyrex bowl close to his waist, digging below his waist. The whisk was poised above the bowl, half-beaten egg dripping from the stainless-steel strands and back into the rest of the runny yellow gloop.

Sips looked to him, slightly shocked. "Not at all, Ross. It's a tradition. One of the few I actually enjoy." He hated being reminded that Ross placed Sips above himself. Sips lifted his arm to pat the other man on the shoulder, stepping to the left to be out of Ross' way, and leant against the drawers beside. He watched as Ross finished beating the eggs, and proceeded to make an omelet for himself, and for Sips. He noted how there was enough left in the transparent bowl for both Trott and Smith to have some, if they were done anytime soon.

Ross was a competent chef, and within a few minutes, their breakfast was sorted. Sips pulled out some plates, set them on the counter, and the other man dished up. Ross garnished the omelet with a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and cut some strips of smoked salmon from the small package he'd bought. A drizzle of lemon went on top, with a flourish.

Sips grinned. "Nice." Ross met his eyes, smiled back. His horns looked royal blue with his head tilted like that. Sips gestured to their small dining table, stationed in the centre of the kitchen. "Shall we?" Ross nodded. Sips followed after him, sitting across from the gargoyle.

His year hadn't started too poorly after all.


End file.
